“Darian—”
“Actually, tell them if they want me, they can find me here. I’ve got a studio. I’ve got session musicians. If Rex wants to work together, he knows where I am.”
The silence on Laura’s end stretches long enough that I wonder if she hung up. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“You’re turning down guaranteed money and exposure for what? Some groupie? You should know better than that, Darian.”
I see red at her calling Rye a groupie, but then I remember Laura has no idea who I’m with. I smile, knowing Laura will never be a part of our lives.
“For a life that actually means something,” I tell her. “Everything you’re offering, I can do here.”
“Christ, you’ve gone soft.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I finally figured out what matters.”
“This is career suicide.”
“No, it’s career evolution. I’m done chasing other people’s definitions of success.”
Another pause. “Fine. I’ll tell them. But when you’re playing coffee shops in five years wondering where it all went wrong?—”
“I’ll be exactly where I want to be.”
I hang up before she can respond and immediately dial another number. Rex’s manager answers on the second ring.
“Darian Mercer. I was wondering when we’d hear from you.”
“I’m not coming to LA.”
“Excuse me?”
“If Rex wants to work with me, we do it in Nashville. I’ve got access to a world-class studio here, better session musicians than you’ll find anywhere else, and the sound he’s looking for. He’s familiar with the scene here so it’s not out of the question.”
“The label expects?—”
“The label expects a great album. I can deliver that from here. If Rex is serious about wanting me specifically, then location shouldn’t matter.”
“I’ll need to discuss this with Rex and the label.”
“You do that. But make it clear this isn’t negotiable. Nashville or nothing.”
I end the call and slip my phone into my pocket. Through the curtain, I see Rye check her watch. It’s almost time.
The house lights dim as I walk onto the stage. There’s maybe fifty people here tonight—regulars mostly, plus Rye and Lily, my sister- and brother-in-law, Stormy and Willow. Not the packed house we had last week, which is perfect. This isn’t about the crowd.
“Evening,” I say into the mic, adjusting the guitar strap. “Got something new tonight. Well, new to you. I’ve been working on it for a while.”
I don’t look at Rye, not yet. Instead, I focus on the opening chord progression, the one she helped me figure out two weeks ago when we were supposed to be fixing the sound board but ended up writing instead.
The song starts quiet, just fingerpicking and my voice barely above a whisper. It’s about finding home in unexpected places, about choosing to stay when everything in your history says run. About a woman who runs a venue and sees through bullshit, and a little girl who wants to learn guitar.
I wrote it for them, even if they don’t know it yet.
Halfway through the second verse, I finally look at their table. Lily’s eyes are wide, completely absorbed in the performance. But Rye—she knows. I can see it in the way her hand grips her glass, the way her shoulders tense with recognition.
The bridge is where the song opens up, where the fear gives way to certainty. My voice cracks slightly on the line about promises being replaced by presence, but I push through. This is the most honest thing I’ve written in years.
